Blood Of My Blood
by TheGirlWithNoTattoo
Summary: 16 year old Bella's life is changed forever when her family is murdered by a pack of werewolves bent on revenge and she is taken hostage. But what happens when one of the pack members imprints on her? Rated T for violence and language.
1. Prologue

The earth is old and full of holes, Mom would say. Its crust is thin and brittle like ice and underneath lies a thousand nightmares waiting for it to thaw and crack. No need to dig; if something bad wants to find you, it will.

_Okay, Mom_, I would say, the way Charlie had taught me. _Whatever you say, Mom_.

_Listen to me, girl_ she would say. _Never trust anything that comes out of the shadows. Darkness shifts and conceals; it's impossible to know what is inside it no matter how hard you try._ _Whatever you do,_ _do not trust it_

_Okay, Mom. If you say so. _

I should have listened.


	2. One

**A/N: okee dokee, so it's a bit different (just a warning). Also it's pretty violent and there is some not very nice language. To be honest, to make this story work I set this story in the far (very far) future where towns no longer have names and they are more isolated. Sort of dystopian meets Twilight. **

I was fifteen years old the winter the one eyed man showed up in our town, his frost bitten body inked with foreign images, his haul dragged behind him in a splintered sledge. The sledge sunk deep into the snow, heavy with furs piled high. Tethered behind the sledge on long ropes of braided animal hide were a jumble of human skulls. They're naked jaws clicked and clacked together as they bounced over the frozen ground, sending a macabre waltz echoing down into the shallow valley below. Although the one eyed man had only good intentions, the look of him and his strange burden was an awkward mix of absurd and horrifying.

He had travelled for weeks through dark stained wilderness but when he arrived the sun was total and burning overhead and the stranger had to thin his one eye at its shine. Strangers to our part of the world were few and far between and the town welcomed him with suspicion and curiosity.

"Who are you?" Mrs. Proust, the local teacher, asked, her pebble colored eyes taking in the one eyed man, the sledge, the furs, the skulls.

"I'm a farmer. 'Least, I used to be." He glanced over his shoulder at the snarl of mountains he had just dragged himself through. "You got trouble coming. Thought I ought to warn you,"

"What kinda trouble?" Charlie asked, resting a hand on his holster and leaning against the post of the low slung porch the stranger had taken shelter under.

The one eyed man smiled and spat a clot of tobacco into the muddied snow at his feet, leaving a trail of brown yuck dribbling down his chin. "Ever been across those mountains?"

"Never." Mrs. Proust said.

"Once." Charlie said. "But that was years ago."

"You can't cross those mountains no more. They're everywhere."

"Who?"

The one eyed man's smile widened. "Wolves. Wolves with eyes the colour of fresh blood and teeth sharp as razor blades."

The man walked to the back of the sledge, his feet crunching loudly in the snow, and picked up one of the skulls. "This was my dear wife." The one eyed man said, holding the skull aloft for Charlie and Mrs. Proust to ogle at before gesturing to the two other skulls with his free hand, "and my son and daughter."

"I'm sorry for your loss," Mrs. Proust said slowly, "But I don't understand."

"Allow me to explain, ma'am."

In the background there was the sound of doors opening and closing and feet shuffling into the street as dozens of townsfolk came to watch the weather streaked stranger showing off the skulls of his family and screaming his hysterical tale of unspeakable violence and doom.

"The wolves come with a North wind that reeks of death and go from village to village, driven by an unquenchable thirst for blood. They came to my house in the dead of night and slaughtered my family in their beds. You do not know what horror is until you find your wife ripped apart and half eaten by something that you think only exists in nightmares. My son's limbs were torn from his body, the walls of my house painted with his guts. My daughter's stomach was clawed clean open. They butchered my family's sheep and cattle and lapped up the blood while it was still hot. " He pointed to the mountains in the distance, "Those same wolves are just on the other side of those peaks. Those same wolves are coming for you," he paused long enough to point a gnarled index finger at each individual in the small crowd. "Maybe not today. Maybe not next week or even next month. But they're coming and I'm the only hope you folks got. Stick with me and you might just stand a chance" He gestured now to the pile of furs. "There's four of 'em right there. Shot and skinned the bastards myself."

Charlie eased his hand from his holster and dragged his eyes knowingly from man to man in the crowd.

He nodded once.

They descended upon the one eyed man, driving him to the hard earth long enough to cuff his hands behind his back.

"Sorry 'bout this." Charlie grunted, "But around here we keep the crazies locked up."

The men of the town stood him up and dragged him towards the jail house, his legs kicking every which way as his body was scuffed along the cold street. A slew of curses flew from his mouth.

"You'll regret this!" he screamed, "You will regret what you've done!"

In the not-too-far off distance the prickly sun began to set behind the mountains, turning the sky to rust.


End file.
